Write the damn book already

How to create art when you aren't suffering

I did something this past week that I’d never done before in my life. I booked myself an Air BnB in the middle of nowhere (Idyllwild, to be exact, which is about as close to the middle of nowhere you can get within a two hours drive of Los Angeles) with nothing but a backpack of clothes, my dog, and my laptop, so I could take time to write. I had attempted to go on a solo writer’s retreat in Brighton when I was 26 in the UK, but ended up doom-scrolling on Tinder instead and going on dates with every trans guy in the area. Whoops. This time, I was determined to do it right. I’m still getting paid my dirty hush money from leaving my VC-backed LGBT job until May 31^st, so I finally caved and splurged on myself and my creative practice. Something my frugal Nebraskan father has never and would never advise me to do. But I did it. In a very Thoreauean manner, I went to a cabin in the woods to romance and seduce myself into writing this book.

Speaking of money and valuing our creative practice, I want to let you all know that I’m soft-launching a paid subscription model for this newsletter that I’m super pumped about. Paid subscribers to BOYS LOVE POETRY will get access to all posts & archive, audio recordings of poems and prose, and (the most exciting part of all) my new advice column 1-800 DREAMBOAT. Here, I will answer all your questions about life, dating, transition, relationships, sex, and the endless pursuit of gay happiness. As soon as you become a paid subscriber, you’ll get access to all paid content, including the Google form where you can submit your questions. If you stay a free subscriber, you will continue to get bi-weekly Sunday newsletters like this hand-delivered to your inbox but none of the other perks. It would mean the world to me if you considered upgrading to become a paid subscriber <3

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Okay back to the cabin in the woods: the birds were singing, the air was crisp, the wood fire I built was giving me smoke inhalation injuries. Now that I’m back home in Los Angeles, I’m trying to block out the sounds of barking guard dogs, helicopters circling, and cars drag racing in the streets outside. Like every other writer, I can find a million excuses in my day-to-day life not to write. I’m trying to bring myself back to my little sunlit desk by the open window, the sticky smell of pine trees wafting both through the window and through the Pin 12 Le Labo candle that my friend bought me, surrounded by books of people I love and admire, the blank page of my notebook in front of me. Now that I’m back in the “real world,” I must do everything I can to protect the little oasis I made inside myself, so I can write the damn book already.